Into the Knight (Young Bruce Wayne)
by MichaelSmitherman1
Summary: A young Bruce Wayne, who suffers from various mental health disorders, attempts to cope with who he is as he seeks mental care from various places. As the story progresses, we get an in-depth view into his psychology and why he decides to become Batman in this drastically different take on the origin of the Caped Crusader. (New chapters will be added frequently.)
1. Chapter 1: Therapy

CHAPTER 1

The room is… bland. White walls, generic paintings, flower vases (though I'm not sure if the flowers are real; I'm not a flower expert), and the smell of a burning candle. Oh, and awkward silence. A _lot_ of awkward silence as I sit across from my new therapist, waiting for her to say something.

But no. I apparently have to be the one to speak first, which I hate. (I'm not much of a people person, which you'll come to learn.)

"Um… can you ask me some questions?" I ask, trying to spark some conversation to pass time.

My therapist, Agatha Harris (which sounds a lot like a crazy woman's name, though that is being overly judgemental), proceeds to ask the most generic questions a therapist could conceivably come up with.

"How have you been feeling since last week?"

I get that question a lot. And it's not a question I can answer with one word. "I… don't know."

"Have you been taking yout medication?"

"Yes."

"Do you take it by yourself? Or does Alfred have to remind you?"

"I usually take it by myself."

Medication has always been something I've had a shady feeling about. It's not that I'm against it generally, but I think too many people expect it to work miracles and suddenly make you happy. Let me tell you something: it doesn't work like that. And I can't even tell you if it works at all. (That said, if you can't notice anything, that could be a sign that it is working.)

"How are things going between you and Alfred?" Agatha asks.

If I had the energy to answer this question thoughtfully, I would probably spend about an hour talking about it. But I'm just wiped out now. Then again, for some reason I'm always wiped out when I'm talking with my therapist. Even when I was younger this was an issue.

"It's been… fine, I guess." I say, grossly oversimplifying it.

"No major conflicts between you two recently?"

"Not that I can recall." Once again, an oversimplification.

"Have you had any major mood swings lately?"

I struggle to answer this. To be honest, I can't even tell you what my mood has been like, as I'd rather not think about it. To put a long story short, I have trouble expressing myself and my feelings. Partially because I don't want to have to think about it, and partially because I was not born with the best social skills. Depending on how I'm feeling, I can be rude, snarky, overly blunt, awkward, or anti-social. No, I don't take pride in any of these things, and quite frankly I feel bad for the people who have to put up with it, like my therapist.

Quick history with therapists: I had been visiting the same therapist for about six years, and while I had trouble expressing my feelings toward him, at least I grew comfortable sitting across from him. He retired for unknown reasons, though I theorize that it was probably because he wanted to get away from me. (That's mostly a joke, but I still consider it a possibility. He might've just wanted to spend time with his family.)

He recommended I start seeing Agatha as my new therapist, who is a bit younger and less experienced than he was. While I often dislike her occasional incompetence in human psychology, she is quite thoughtful, and I envy her ability to put up with someone like me.

I just realized she had asked me something almost two minutes ago. I feel embarrassed as I'm unable to remember the question.

"Um… what was the question?" I ask.

"How has your mood been?"

"...I don't really know."

"Good? Bad?" Agatha really wants an answer.

"Average." That's the simplest answer I can give.

"No angry outbursts?" she asks.

"No."

"So you seem to be feeling pretty well?"

I hesitate. Like I said earlier, I cannot tell you how I'm feeling; human psychology isn't that simple, at least for me.

"Yeah," I answer.

She nods, and jots some notes down. I often wonder what she (or any other therapist, for that matter) writes down. It kind of makes me feel paranoid that they're writing stuff like "he's crazy" to show to the other psychologists.

She smiles at me, and proceeds to talk in a formal manner. "Bruce, there's something I want to ask you about."

I always dread when people say they're going to ask me a question first, as opposed to actually asking it straightforward. If you want to ask me a difficult question, just ask it, as opposed to sparking a mini internal anxiety attack.

"I run group therapy sessions here every Friday for young adults. It's just a place for struggling teens to express themselves and see that they're not alone. Alfred asked me about it and said he wants you to join."

A jolt of rage fires up inside of me, but I don't show it. "He said he wants me in the group?" I ask, hoping for clarification.

Agatha nods. "Yes. He called me yesterday and requested that you join. Obviously it's your choice, but he thinks its best for you. And so do I."

I feel offended and somewhat humiliated. "Did he say why?"

Agatha is hesitant on telling me. "He and I both think that you could use some socialization with others going through your same situation."

I want to scream in protest, but I understand she's not the one who I should be complaining to.

Honestly, it's not even the idea of going to a group therapy session every week that annoys me, even though I would rather use that time staying home. My main problem is this being arranged without my involvement, because they think I'm "too crazy" or something like that. But let me tell you right now that withholding information and making decisions for me without my consent only makes things worse.

I simply smile and say "I'll think about it."

Agatha smiles and nods.

I look at the clock, hoping its almost time to leave. We have five minutes left. I awkwardly look away from her.

"Um… is it alright if I lead early?"

I suspect she's disappointed. "I suppose. Will you think it over?"

I nod. "Of course."

Agatha nods back. "Okay. See you next week?"

"I guess so."

Like I said earlier, I have an issue with being low-energy during therapist appointments. I guess the main issue is that most of the time when I'm in a session, I'm doing fine. I'm usually not cripplingly depressed, or overly anxious, or in a panicked state, even if I was feeling that prior to the appointment.

No, most of the time I'm talking with the therapist, I'm just bored. And I usually just want to go home. And I feel bad for my therapist, as they're having to deal with someone who just wants to leave.

I walk out to the driveway, and get in my old Jetta. I proceed to drive home to my apartment in suburban Gotham. And I'm just fine with that.

Could I be driving a Porsche to a mansion in a wealthy, gated neighborhood? Yeah, I could.

But do I want to? No.


	2. Chapter 2: Alfred

CHAPTER 2

I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, pleasantly surprised to not smell any cigarette smoke. I guess the smokers finally got enough personal decency to not smoke in public.

I walk into my apartment. It's pretty big as far as apartments go, though I still wish it were smaller.

"Alfred?" I call. Nobody responds. I suppose he isn't home.

I go into the bathroom and take my meds. (Or rather, my afternoon meds. I'm on multiple medications that I take at different times of the day.) As I've stated earlier, I cannot tell you if any of them are actually doing anything. But I take them anyway, mainly because Alfred will scold me if I don't.

I walk into my bedroom, and attempt to sleep in hopes that I can pass the time quicker. Unfortunately I learned along time ago that the best way to stay awake is to try to fall asleep.

The door opens, and I hear the signature British accent. "Hello, Bruce."

"Hello, Alfred," I say blankly.

"How did your appointment with Agatha go today?" He asks.

"Bland." I'm trying to hide my anger toward him.

"What have you been doing since you got home?"

"Wallowing in my own depression."

"Typical. Did you take your afternoon meds?"

I am really getting tired of him asking me that. "Yes."

"No angry flareup after I asked that? I'm impressed."

He's referring to me getting angry whenever people ask me those generic questions. I guess my main problem with people asking things like "how was your day?" and "did you do this?" is that I've heard it every day of my life, and it's gotten to the point where just hearing it will trigger a bad memory. It's kind of like eating the same food every day; eventually you'll get tired of it and want to eat something else.

I decide to confront him now. "Why did you recommend me for a youth group therapy program?"

Alfred seems like he's been dreading this question. "Bruce, it would only be one hour a week."

"And so you recommend me for it without telling me?"

"I knew you would say no."

I probably would have, but that doesn't change anything. I strain to keep my voice calm. "I thought we agreed that we would stop this therapy shit soon."

He looks irritated at me. "Bruce, I agreed that we would stop once you've shown that you've improved. Which you haven't. Since nothing else is working, I suspect you need to be around other kids like you."

I roll my eyes.

"Bruce, you know I just want the best for you. So please don't fight me about this."

If I weren't feeling so drained, I would argue. But I've been trying my best to avoid getting into fights lately, especially ones that I know I won't win.

"Fine," I say.

"Thank you."

We both sit in the room awkwardly for the next few moments. Inside I truly feel bad for treating Alfred like shit, especially since he's given up everything for me. Sometimes I wish he would stop caring so he can live a fully-realized life without having an edgy kid to take care of.

"I'm going to the workout room," I say before walking out. My previous therapist recommended working out as a "stress reliever." While it might help in the short term, the negative feelings almost always come back.

I start hitting the punching bag, another strategy my old therapist told me. I start feel a weird sensation as I hit the bag, like my heart is about to explode. I start hitting the bag harder, and my heart races even more. I feel the adrenaline running through my entire body, but I begin to feel…. angry. My mind is traveling at light speed, and I sense myself lose grip of reality as I let out my frustration. But I don't want to stop. I imagine this bag feeling the blow of my fist, crying out in pain.

My body collides with the bag, and I snap out of my trance. I look around, thinking someone is watching me. But it's only me in the room. Someone knocks on my door.

"May I come in, Bruce?"

"Yeah."

He notices me panting. "Are you alright, Bruce?"

I contemplate telling him what I felt, but I decide to not persuade him to ask more questions. "Yeah."

I can tell he doesn't buy it, but he's learned by now to give me space. "Do you want to head out for dinner, Bruce?" He knows what my answer will be, but that doesn't stop him from asking every day.

"No," I say.

He's disappointed. "Alright. Bruce, Ava is coming over tomorrow afternoon to work with you."

I am not looking forward to tomorrow. "Okay," I answer. Ava is my private math tutor, who comes three times a week and basically teaches me everything a normal school would.

School was never for me. I haven't been to a traditional school in years, stopping after seventh grade. The private school I was going to told me I was bright, but also said a traditional school "wasn't right" for me, i.e. their way of telling me I'm too crazy and disturbed to attend. But I prefer it this way. People aren't really my thing.

"Bruce, please be patient with her. I've seen you have a tendency to jump ahead, but please stick to the pace."

"If she can't keep up, than that's her fault," I say. Ever since I was a child, I was able to learn practically anything in the matter of minutes. I remember everything, which can be both a blessing and a curse.

"Bruce, just go at the pace she wants. It will make it easier on the both of us." Alfred walks out.

After he leaves, I walk into my room and lay myself on the bed. I try to go to sleep, but I can't. I keep thinking of what I felt when hitting the punching bag.

Excitement.


	3. Chapter 3: Group

CHAPTER 3

I am currently sitting in an empty room, not moving an inch in my chair. I'm staring at the ground, trying my best to avoid eye contact with anyone else in the circle.

There are two other kids around my age in the room, though I've only glanced at them briefly, so I can't give a good description on either one. I know one is a girl, who's sitting still. The other one, a boy, is constantly twitching and fidgeting in his chair. I understand that some people do that to stay comfortable, but it really doesn't give me a good first impression on him, especially when I'm already feeling out of place.

I suspect Agatha isn't here yet. Maybe she got stuck in traffic, or maybe she just forgot about us. Part of me hopes that she won't show up just so I can have an excuse to leave.

I've already talked about how I hate people, so naturally a social setting like this wouldn't be my cup of tea. But there's another element of being in a room with supposedly crazy people that adds to my anxiety about the situation. (Yes, I know they're probably not crazy. I'm just describing how it feels to me.)

Unfortunately, Agatha walks in. I continue to avoid eye contact.

"I'm sorry guys. I got caught in a traffic jam," she says. Nobody responds.

She seats herself in the circle, and looks around at all of us, smiling.

"As you've noticed, we have a new member to our group. This is Bruce. He'll be joining us from now on. Please make him feel welcomed."

"...hi," the boy says, his voice slightly shaky. He looks like he's more uncomfortable in this situation than I am.

The girl just nods and smiles at me.

"Bruce, would you like to introduce yourself?" Agatha asks, which is the last thing I want to do right now.

"Hi…. I'm Bruce," I reluctantly say.

"Andrea, Edward, please introduce yourselves," Agatha says. It's this moment where I realize that I'm not alone in feeling awkward social settings.

"I'm Edward," the boy manages to get out. I am legitimately curious as to what Edward's deal is, but I recognize that some things are left unasked.

"I'm Andrea." Looking at her more, she's actually quite attractive. She looks relatively comfortable, unlike Edward. She also looks a lot more prim and proper than what I would expect, which makes me wonder how she got herself in here.

Agatha speaks. "Bruce, I try to let you all lead the conversation, as opposed to me moderating it. I believe it's important to just let you guys interact."

She looks at both Edward and Andrea, pressuring them to ask me something.

Andrea finally speaks up. "So…. what school do you go to?"

I hesitate to answer this. "I don't," I say. When they both look confused, I feel the urge to clarify. "I have private tutors. They come a few times a week." I really hope I don't have to explain any more.

"You're lucky," Edward says. I think he's speaking playfully, though its hard to tell with him. "You don't have to worry about being beat up by jocks."

I nod, unsure of how to respond. I cannot tell if he's being serious or not, and I'm not sure if I want to know.

"Do you like your tutors?" Andrea asks.

"They exist," I say, rather smugly.

"So… did your parents recommend you for this group?" Andrea asks.

Coming up with an answer to that question is harder than I thought. "My legal guardian recommended I be here."

Andrea looks confused at first, but she eventually gets the memo. She silently nods.

"Why are you two here?" That question might make them uncomfortable, which I feel bad for, but part of me just wants to know.

"I struggle with depression and anxiety. My parents thought it would be good if I be around other kids," Andrea says. "I think it has helped me quite a bit."

Edward also answers. "I asked my parents to come here. I needed friends."

Every time Edward speaks, my heart breaks a little. Like I said, I don't know if he's just being playful with his dark statements, but the fact that he's saying them at all hurts me slightly.

"Do you two have any advice for Bruce regarding this group?" Agatha asks to Andrea and Edward.

"Don't think of this group as a group for crazy people," Edward says. "Think of it as a group to help you through your problems."

Just a quick note: whenever someone says "this ISN'T a place for crazy people," that makes me ten times more likely to think it IS a place for crazy people.

"Sometimes it's just good to talk about life in general. We think you'll find it really useful," says Andrea. I hope she's right, or else I'm just wasting one hour of my life each weak making myself more depressed than I already am.

There are a few moments of awkward silence. Agatha looks at Andrea, hoping she will spark a conversation. But she just avoids eye contact.

Agatha, in an attempt to break the silence, starts the conversation herself. "Has anyone gotten into a bad situation recently that they found a healthy way to cope with?"

Nobody speaks. Agatha starts calling names. "Edward?"

Edward looks embarrassed. "My dad was bullying me for getting a bad grade in school. So I went into my room."

"What would you have normally done?" Agatha asks.

"...I would have gotten angry….."

"And instead of using that anger to hurt others, you went into your room?"

Edward nods.

"That's a good way of handling the situation." She looks at Andrea. "What about you?"

"I was depressed. So I went to my parents to talk about it," Andrea says. "I used to do bad things when I got like that."

I cannot decide if I feel more or less comfortable after she admitted that.

"Can anyone name any more coping strategies when we're feeling upset?"

Nobody says anything. I can tell she wants me to contribute. "Write your thoughts down?" I say.

She seems happy at my contribution. "Very good. Anyone else?"

I honestly feel like I'm being treated like a child, like I don't belong here. But something tells me Andrea and Edward are thinking the exact same thing.

Nobody has answered Agatha's question. Discomfort is in the air.

It's this moment where I start to feel something that I'm not sure I've ever felt. I barely even know these people, and yet I feel like I understand them better than anyone in their own lives ever did. They don't want to be here either, and there's something strangely comforting about that.

They're not crazy, and it's a shame that they probably feel that way about themselves. If only I could say the same for myself.

"Anyone?" Agatha is getting impatient.

"You could play a board game when you feel upset," Edward suggests.

I can tell this will be a long day.


	4. Chapter 4: Education

CHAPTER 4

My first group therapy session was… less painful than I expected. Not fun, mind you, but it could have been worse.

I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex, and the smell of cigarette smoke is back, much to my disdain. I hastily get out of my car, about to hurry into my apartment.

But I don't. My eye is caught on a couple - he's in his mid thirties and she looks barely even twenty - next to a run-down pickup truck, and I can tell they're angry at each other. What they were angry about, I couldn't tell you. But I see him in her face as she tries to keep her distance.

He notices me staring at their confrontation. "Do you need something?" He says to me, harshly.

Under my breath, I utter "...no, sorry…."

He turns back and continues to harass her. I look away, and head into my apartment.

To my surprise, my math tutor Ava is already there, sitting at the table. I internally scream.

I knew she was coming today, but it slipped my mind while I was in the crazy people group. I suppose I might as well tough it out, since I don't want to ask her to leave again. (I've done that before, where I'm just not able to focus.)

"Hello, Bruce!" She says energetically.

"...hi," I say timidly.

"Do you need a minute to get situated, or can we start now?" She says, kindly.

"Now is as good of a time as ever, I guess.'

"Great!"

Her, along with some other tutors I've had before, are very kind and generous to me. But not in a good way. I can tell when someone is truly being caring for me, and when they're just doing it as an act. When someone is smiling and cheery all the time, it doesn't feel real. It looks like they're putting on a mask to appear all cheery, and their voice sounds artificial. I don't believe these people mean wrong when they do it, but I wish I could tell them that artificial joy is not attractive.

I sit down, ready to get working. And by working I mean zoning out while she explains to me things I already know. Like I said, if I learn it once, it sticks in my head. I don't need it repeated to me over and over again to grasp a simple concept.

As I work through a heap of worksheets, she proceeds ask me boring questions, or as typical people would say, _small talk_.

"So what have you been doing since we last met?" she asks. We last met literally three days ago.

"Nothing much," I say, trying to be as pleasant as possible.

"What have you done today?"

"I went to a group therapy session for depressed people," I state as if that's a normal activity.

She's thrown off by this, which I take guilty pleasure in. "...have you seen any good movies recently?"

"No."

"Not at all? Nothing is out that you want to see?"

"I'm not really a big consumer of entertainment," I say as a rocket through each problem on the page.

"Do you just not like it?"

"I just can't ever get myself to sit down and enjoy something. Sometimes I wish I could."

"Oh… well that's unfortunate, isn't it?"

This reminds me of all the times people ask me "what do you do in your spare time?" Nothing. Because hardly anything is enjoyable to me. And explaining that to people who don't understand is one of the most frustrating situations you can be in.

The tutoring session finally ends, and I head into my room, hoping to sleep away the hours.

Alfred walks in. "I'm just checking on you Bruce."

"That's fine," I say.

"That's a first," he jokes. "How did your session with Ava go?"

I am really getting fed up with those types of questions. "Typical."

"I'll take that as 'good'. Are you feeling alright?"

"...sure."

He doesn't buy it. But he knows better than to pressure me at this point. He leaves.

After I can't sleep, I pick up a book. I attempt to read it, struggling to take in words, and hoping to reach the end of the chapter just so I can stop reading for the night. It's not even that bad; I just can't take it in.

So I don't have a drive to do things I enjoy. Now try to imagine me trying to do actual work.

I close the book in the middle of the chapter, which was way too long to read all at once. (Note for aspiring storytellers: shorter is better.) I try to fall asleep, but can't.

I think back to earlier this week, and what I felt when I was hitting on the punching bag: excitement.

It's an interesting feeling, hard to describe. I feel energized, like I can do anything.

Dare I say, it feels kind of good.

But then I remember what that feeling eventually led me to do all these years back. And I cringe as the memories come flooding back. I shut down the thought immediately, and drift to sleep.

I can distantly hear a couple arguing, which gets louder and more aggressive over the course of the next few minutes. Then I hear the sound of a young woman screaming in terror.

Thinking about it now, I probably should have helped her in the parking lot earlier today.

But I'm its too late for that now. And I feel bad for it.


	5. Chapter 5: Revelations

CHAPTER 5

Three months of going to this therapy group, and I think I get how it works now: we start off awkward, then we warm up to each other after a while, then things go awkward again after Agatha tries to force subject matter into the discussions. We know what we want to talk about. And sometimes it's just better to talk about random stuff, as opposed to depression all the time.

But yeah. That's the cycle. Everything goes pretty smoothly until Agatha wants to redirect the topic back to coping with difficulties. (Which is strange, since in the beginning she said she DIDN'T want to intervene in conversations.)

That is, until today. She didn't stop us when we were talking. And it actually felt good.

Today, our off-topic conversation of comfort was about our favorite animals. How did we get on this topic? I honestly cannot tell you. But I'm okay with it.

Andrea's favorite are chimpanzees. Edward does not agree.

"Those things terrify me. Their teeth look like knives," Edward says. I kind of agree; they are pretty scary when you think about it. "They look like they suck blood."

"Would you rather be stuck in a room with a chimpanzee, or in a dark cave full of bats?"

_Bats_. The memories come flooding back. And I feel a strange heaviness in my eyes, but I can't tell what emotion I'm feeling.

"Bats. Totally," Edward says.

"Bats are disgusting. I hate them," Andrea says. "They look like they want to eat you."

They don't eat you. Most bats don't bite unless they feel threatened, let alone eat you. They also aren't blind, and over half of the 900 species of bats use their hearing to navigate through dark areas. Female bats also have 9 week gestation periods, and unlike other animals, often give birth to only one pup (term used for a baby bat). They also sleep upside down because it's the easiest position to escape from if their natural habitat is disturbed.

As I go off on a mental tangent about bats, Andrea and Edward notice me zoning out.

"You okay, Bruce?" Andrea asks.

"Yeah, it's just… I used to like bats. A lot." I smile, partially to hide my embarrassment. "I used to pretend to be a bat when I was younger, and… it's kind of stupid, but… I don't know."

"Why bats?" Andrea says, disgusted.

I can't believe I'm admitting all of this right now. "They were just cool. Every Halloween I would dress up as a bat. My parents would take me to a nearby neighborhood, and they would dress as bats too." I feel a tear on my face. "They always used to put aside time on Halloween to spend time with me. So I looked forward to Halloween each year just so I could be a bat with them."

I am eighty-seven percent certain that they think I'm childishly crazy. And yet I still continue. "Weird question, but do you guys ever wish you could dress up and play pretend like a little kid again?" I ask.

Neither of them respond. I'm pretty sure I'm alone in this.

"Do you have any pictures you could bring next time?" Andrea asks. "It sounds cute."

I smile, though I'm not sure if the smile is genuine or if its forced. "Um… I don't like looking at old pictures of myself."

"Why?" Andrea asks.

More tears roll down as I recall a child-like but exceptionally intelligent eight-year-old who knew exactly who he was and wanted to be. And I miss that person.

I just want that kid back in my life.

"What's your last name?" Edward asks suddenly. I look at him, and he's eager to know.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I say.

"What is it?" he pressures me. Agatha looks at him as to say "stop," but if it's an answer he wants, it's an answer he'll get.

I feel a rush of frustration as I recall all the times someone asks for my full name. It never results in a normal interaction. "Wayne," I say. "You happy?"

Both Andrea and Edward look wide-eyed at me. Andrea is about to say something, but Agatha stops her.

"It's fine," I tell Agatha, though I can't hide the roughness in my voice. "Yes, I'm 'that kid.' Is there anything else you'd like to ask me?"

Do I feel kind of bad for my harsh tone? Yeah, sort of. But I'm trying to make a point.

"...why aren't you rich?" Edward asks. "I thought you were billionaires."

"We were," I say. "You're point?"

"But… you said you lived in an apartment." Edward has a real hard time picking up on subtext.

"I do," I say, hoping he finally gets the memo.

"But, if you're a billionaire... "

"I abandoned that aristocracy shit a long time ago," I say, getting fed up with Edward's inability to understand. "And no, I don't want to be rich."

Andrea and Edward both appear star-struck. And I hate it.

"What do you two know about my parents?" I ask them. "What do you remember the news saying about them when they died nine years ago?"

I await their response. I give them a harsh stare, looking for an answer. I am legitimately curious.

"...I remember your dad was running for mayor," Edward finally says. "He was the CEO of Wayne Tech."

"Did the news label them as 'the hope for tomorrow' or 'the golden standard of being wealthy'?" I ask.

"I… I think so?" Edward says, trembling.

"Well, I can safely say that was all bullshit. They weren't happy. Both of them were serial adulterers. They manipulated their way through all these lawsuits by paying them all to shut up about it. My mom was a drug addict. My dad illegally took money out of charities to fund his political campaign. For all I know they probably wanted to die long before they got shot. Their money did not make them happy." I finish, taking a few moments to cool down.

Everyone in the room avoids eye contact with me. I sit up firmly, awaiting a response.

"...did you know?" Andrea asks. "Did you know what they were doing…?"

"No. They did their best to isolate me from all of that. I'm pretty sure my existence was the only thing that kept them alive after all these years." I take a deep breath. "I'm not trying to call my parents terrible people. I'm just making the point that money does not automatically equal happiness. In fact, it does the exact opposite."

"When did you stop… being rich?" asks Andrea.

"My butler thought it would be best that I move out of my family's mansion, away from the spotlight. He thought it would be damaging if I was neighbors with some wealthy business owner who might or might not have had sex with my mom. After I realized that money and fame does nothing but corrupt, I decided to stay out of the spotlight. And I have never once regretted that decision." I finish my story, still sitting calmly.

"...is that why you have a private tutor?" Edward asks. "Because you didn't go to school after that?"

"That's a whole other sob story. Do you want another one?" I ask sarcastically.

"...yes?"

"Okay, I think we're toward the end of our session," Agatha says. "Bruce, we very much appreciate you sharing this. I know it wasn't easy."

My pleasure.

Andrea and Edward leave, petrified. I'm left sitting in the room with Agatha, and she proceeds to give me a 10-minute lecture on why I shouldn't have said what I said.

But to tell you the truth, I have no regrets. In fact, it kind of felt relieving to let all of that out. But I don't express any of this to Agatha, afraid she might continue her lecture.

I walk to my car, and sit in the driver's seat for what seems like hours, processing everything that just happened.

My thoughts drift back to the little boy who just liked to dress up and pretend to be a bat, Trick-Or-Treating with his parents on Halloween night. I the realize that the little boy possessed a quality that I do not: under socialized as he was, he was at least satisfied.

I feel a tear roll down my face.


	6. Chapter 6: Satisfaction

CHAPTER 6

I sit in my car for a good few minutes, thinking about whatever comes to my mind. In theory, could I simply get out of the car, walk in the store, get groceries, walk out, and drive home? Yeah, that sounds pretty easy.

It's harder than you think. And I can't really explain it.

Alfred has recently come up with this "you need to start taking care of yourself" mentality, saying that I "need to be prepared for the adult world."

I'm not an adult. At least not legally until a few weeks. (Then again, if this were a few centuries ago, I'd likely already be married with children. But this isn't a few centuries ago; this is now.)

So yeah. Alfred's idea of being an "adult" is just getting groceries from the store, as opposed to him always getting it. Does he have a point? Maybe. Do I like it? No.

And yes, I did tell him about what happened during the group session a few weeks ago, and he gave me a lecture about how I shouldn't go around "bragging" about who I am. (Question: is it even "bragging" if I'm not saying anything positive about myself or my family?) He's been pretty lenient on me, though, so I thank him for that.

But the group therapy sessions have been… awkward, for lack of a better term. I'm now treated like an alien by Andrea and Edward, and Agatha has to reassure me in my private sessions with her that I'm perfectly normal. To put it in simple terms: don't do what I did, because you'll regret it later.

I try and get the groceries as discreetly as possible, wearing a black hoodie for extra caution. (Just quick tip of advice: if you don't want to get noticed, then don't make yourself look approachable.)

I bag the few things I got at the front, avoiding eye contact with the clerk.

To my distain, the clerk actually talks to me. "Hey… do I know you from somewhere?"

I've been to this grocery store (the one non-sketchy store in all of Gotham) many times when I was younger, because Alfred didn't trust me to be at home by myself. So he might've seen me. But I hope to God he isn't thinking about what I think he is.

"Yeah, probably," I answer, and head out to my car.

I put the groceries in the trunk, and am ready to drive off and return to my isolation chamber (i.e. my apartment).

But I don't. Somewhere in the parking lot, I hear a girl screaming out in distress. I also hear an adult man grunting.

Just when I thought this grocery store was relatively normal.

I think of what Alfred constantly tells me about going out alone: if you see trouble, don't go after it; that's the police's job, not yours.

I then think about the traumatized nine-to-ten-year-old from all these years back, who mindlessly desired blood on his hands whenever he saw someone. And I've spent the last six or seven years of my life making sure that person stays dead.

She screams again, and I start the car, ready to drive away from this mess. But on instinct I get out of the car, and look behind my vehicle. And I see what's going on.

A girl, who looks no older than I am, has a man in his early 20s, clearly drunk, trying to rape her. She's putting up a good fight, but she can't get away.

I recall being told on a few occasions that girls have to be extra careful when heading out than guys do. Girls have been told various self-defense techniques, while guys can just do whatever they want.

My thoughts then drift off to the idea of consent, and to this day I'm still scratching my head as to why its so complicated. No means no, and anybody who doesn't understand that can go to hell.

As I watch this rape attempt, I contemplate calling for help. But everyone else seems to be ignoring this. And I realize what needs to be done.

Fuck it. You only live once.

I start beating the living shit out of him, targeting where it hurts most. The girl, along with everyone else in the lot, screams, terrified of what I'm doing. But I couldn't care less at this point. I grab the man and start slamming his head against the car window, shattering the glass.

"STOP!" I hear someone behind me scream.

The man looks terrified of me.

"STOP!"

He's still conscious, which means he can still feel pain. Good.

"THIS MAN IS CRAZY!"

I see bright red blood on my hands, and my heart does a back flip. I feel the adrenaline rushing through me, and I can't stop. Not now.

"Put your hands up!" I hear a man say. I don't.

As I continue punching the man to near-death, I feel an arm grab me to pull me off of him. And I snap back to reality.

I look up, and see it was a police officer who lifted me off the man. The realization of what I just did hits me all at once.

"Put your hands up!" the officer says.

I do as told, looking down. The officers search me for any weapons, and they carry me into the cop car.

I'm now on my way to the police station, ready for whatever is to come.

I would like to tell you that I regret what I did, that what I did was wrong, that I didn't know what I was doing. But that would be lying. I knew exactly what I was doing. And I have no regrets.

For most, this would be considered a "bad" day. But today I felt something that I wasn't even sure existed anymore. For the first time in what seems like forever, I felt _satisfied_.


	7. Chapter 7: Asylum

CHAPTER 7

Well, that could have gone a lot worse. I could have been jailed for a decade, or put on death row, or whatever Gotham's justice system does to people who beat rapists to a pulp outside grocery stores.

But I'm not getting any punishment of the sort. I'm just heading to Arkham Hospital's rehabilitation program for a few months to help me sort out my "angry and self-destructive behavior."

My best guess is that a combination of being (barely) a minor and having billions of dollars worth of unused fortune got me a less harsh punishment than I would have gotten. I firmly believe that if I were a poor black man, I would probably be dead now. But I'm not, and I'm grateful.

I'm guessing you've all heard the stereotypes of places like this: human-sized vaults for crazy people, shock therapy sessions, people being held down and sedated by nurses, and patients trying desperately to escape. I can say right now that all of those stereotypes are 100% false, so please stop making assumptions about the people working here and the people who go here for help.

Do we occasionally get the rare crazy, violent person? Yeah, we do. But I strongly believe that there are crazy people everywhere.

Luckily, this isn't my first time here. So I knew what to expect going in.

Am I happy? Absolutely not. Could it be worse? Yes, definitely.

Right now I'm having an in-depth discussion with a doctor. He's an older man who speaks quietly and wants to get as much information from me as possible.

"Bruce, how have you been after staying a week here?"

In my experience talking to doctors, saying anything but "good" or anything positive will result in more questions that you probably don't want to answer. So when you're being asked ANYTHING, even if you're feeling bad, just answer "good," as it'll get the conversation over with quicker.

"It's been alright," I answer. I try to be as pleasant as possible.

"Good. Have the other patients been good to you?"

"I really haven't interacted with them much. We all just keep our space."

"Okay. I just want to let you know that you're all going through the same thing, so it might be comforting to talk with them."

Believe me, I know what they're going through. Probably better than most of the doctors at this hospital.

I just nod.

"Do you like the doctors and nurses here alright?" he asks. The simple answer is sure, they're pretty good. The more complicated answer is that they need to know when to leave us alone and do our own thing, without them micromanaging us every second of our lives.

"Yes," I answer.

"Now, I don't want to get too personal with you here, but I want to get to know you better. What are some of your interests?" he asks.

I've thought of that for years now. "I don't have any," I say.

"Surely there's something you enjoy."

No, there's not. I just shrug. Luckily, he moves on.

"Do you have any pets?"

"No."

"Have you ever had a pet before?"

A memory I don't wish to recall comes back. "Yeah. I had a therapy dog once the first time I was here."

He nods. My guess is that they informed him that I was here before.

"What about friends?" he asks.

"None."

I can tell he feels sorry for me. But I'm getting something else from him.

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask. He takes a moment to process this.

"No," he says. "You look like any other young adult to me."

_Look like_. Everyone looks normal. But sometimes you don't realize who a person really is until they're at their weakness. (Something I've learned from my life experiences.)

The doctor speaks firmly. "Bruce, nobody is in here because they're crazy. This was never intended to be a place for crazy people."

He's wrong about that. It_ did_ start as a place for crazy people. I have no idea why I'm feeling so confident now, but I want to test how much this doctor actually knows about this place.

I speak calmly. "This place was founded as Arkham _Asylum_, not a hospital, by Martin and Cathy Kane due to their family's history with mental illness, violence, and delusions. Back then people didn't know much about mental illness, so it used horrible methods of treating its patients. While it eventually evolved into a hospital to treat people ethically, it did not start that way. So please don't lie to me about that."

He looks taken aback by my knowledge of this place. "I apologize, Bruce. I wasn't trying to lie, I was-"

"I know. But my grandparents founded this place, so I think I have a decent knowledge of this place."

We stay quiet for a few moments, and I realize how rude I've been in the last few minutes. I know I vent a lot about how much I dislike certain aspects of people and places, but often they don't deserve the baggage I give them. I begin to feel embarrassed and a bit ashamed.

He apparently notices. "It's okay, Bruce. You didn't mean wrong."

I nod. Awkward silence fills the room.

"So… do you have any television shows you like?" he asks, trying to change the subject. You can probably guess how that went.

Come to think of it, its kind of weird knowing that this place used to be an asylum that tortured patients as "treatment." But I suppose everyone has a dark past in one way or another.

Something that I understand, but don't necessarily like, is the requirement that we write down our thoughts in a journal. In my experience, writing things down is just stressful, especially if your hand cramps easily. But each night we have to write our thoughts throughout the day, and show it to the doctors the next day. (They specifically advise not writing down anything too personal, as they don't want to invade anyone's privacy.)

We occasionally have group therapy, though it's a lot more structured than what I had with Agatha, which I am not too fond of. We hardly ever talk about anything too personal in there, though, so it kind of feels artificial. But I've now accepted that everyone has their way of treating people.

While I don't like the structured routine we have, I am getting adjusted to it. I wish I had more time to myself to do whatever I want, but that's only me. I can't speak for everyone here.

Is this place helping at all with my issues? As far as I'm concerned, probably not. But if they think its working, that's all that really matters to me. The more I comply, the sooner it'll be that I can check out of this place.

I'm sitting in my assigned bedroom now, feeling bad for putting Alfred through all of this. But at least he doesn't have to worry about me for the next few months, if ever again. And that makes me happy.

I hear someone scream out in hysteria across the hall. I guess that occasional rare crazy person has arrived.

This is going to be a long few months.


	8. Chapter 8: Selena

CHAPTER 8

Spending my eighteenth birthday in a mental institution was a unique experience. Every once in a while I'm allowed to see Alfred, which is always a good reliever. We're allowed to write letters to our parents/guardians, though I rarely do, unless I feel extra lonely. I saw Alfred for an extended period of time on my eighteenth birthday, and he gifted me a crime/mystery novel to enjoy in my downtime.

While I have a hard time consuming any kind of entertainment, crime/mystery novels always intrigued me. Often unrealistic, yes, but there's something fascinating about a detective being in a situation he doesn't know how to resolve.

I wish I could describe the past few months in this place, but to tell the truth nothing interesting has happened. I've mostly complied to what they want me to do, and nothing too terrible has happened. Am I getting better? From my observation, probably not. But I can safely say I've learned a lot from hearing about other people's experiences and how they got in here, even if they don't talk about anything too personal.

If you're wondering what the food is like at Arkham, it's actually not bad. Not great, mind you, but it could be worse.

Right now I'm sitting in the back corner of the cafeteria, alone, away from everyone else. I spend most of my time at lunch writing in my journal, as I'm almost always too tired to do it at night. I start to write how this is just another day before I leave, but then something unexpected: a girl around my age sits down with me, and I avoid eye contact with her.

This has happened at various other places I've been: I'm sitting alone, so people just assume I'm lonely and sit next to me to "comfort" me and check on how I'm doing. But 90% of the time I'm doing just fine, and want to sit alone.

She speaks in a harsh tone. "I have nowhere to sit, and you looked depressed. So I decided to sit with you."

"...I"m good," I say, still avoiding eye contact.

"No you're not. You wouldn't be here if you were fine"

Finally looking up, I am surprised to see that she doesn't look rough at all. In fact, she's quite attractive and well-kept. Makes me wonder how she got herself in here.

I decide to not be reclusive for once. "If you don't mind me asking, why are you sitting by me?"

"To find someone to talk to. Everyone is so quiet here. At least now we can both pretend we made friends while here."

It would be a lie to say I didn't find her bluntness charming. She's somehow able to get away with being smug and harsh without coming across as unlikeable. It's a quality not a lot of people possess.

"I don't suppose you have any friends outside of here?"

"What makes you think that?"

"By looking at you. I can tell when someone is too introverted and depressed to make friends."

I cock an eyebrow. "Do you have any friends where you live?"

She thinks for a moment. "People I hang out with? Yeah." I take note of how she doesn't use the term "friend." She continues. "You've also never had a girlfriend, have you?"

"Never really had the desire for one. Then again, I've never really had the desire for anything," I say. I am pretty sure I've talked more in these few minutes than I have in the past month.

"I suppose you're in here for some careless threat you made or a drug addiction, like everyone else in this place?"

"No. I wouldn't be making instant judgements like that," I say.

"Then why are you here?" she asks. I can't tell if she's just super confident or a straight-up psycho.

I might as well put it bluntly. "I'm in here because I assaulted a rapist in a parking lot."

She looks unphased. "...you beast up someone who deserved it, and they put you in here?"

I think about this for a moment. "Yeah. I guess that's what happened."

She nods. I decide to like her. "Why are you here?" I ask, curiously.

"My foster family would rather put me in an asylum than help me with my issues. They said I'm 'aggressive, sex-obsessed, and and mentally unstable.'" She forces a smile, a bit hurt. "When you remember your biological father molesting you when you were two, and your mom not doing anything about it, those kind of things happen."

I instantly regret asking. "I'm… sorry, I…"

"You're fine," she says. "Things like that do crazy things to you."

I hesitate before speaking again. This will probably end horribly, but I don't care. "...I get it," I say.

She looks at me curiously. "Really?"

I can't believe I'm about to confess to this. But this person is possibly the only one on Earth who might understand. "When I was younger, I witnessed my parents murdered. I was standing with their bodies in front of me for maybe thirty minutes before the police came. My family butler took me in, but realized something was wrong. I had angry outbursts and constantly hurt both him and myself." I wait before continuing, expecting to break down. But in a miracle of events. I don't. "I expressed thoughts about killing him, the doctors, and myself practically every day."

She just stares at me, curiously. "Would you have actually done it?"

I hesitate. "I'm really not sure." We take a moment of silence. "I was brought here when I was nine to help with these outbursts. It took a year, but they finally got me to think about something other than violence. I would like to say I was fine after that, but that would lying."

She smiles. "That's deep."

I smile back. "Yeah."

"So did you just go back to school like nothing ever happened?"

"Not exactly." I choke a bit. "My classmates bothered me. A lot. So after a few years back, I expressed to the school counselor violent thoughts I was having about them, looking for help. So they kicked me out."

"They kicked you out because you _asked for help_?"

Thinking about it, yeah, that is what happened. "Basically, yeah."

"That's fucking saddening," she says. "Have you told your therapists about this?"

"Yeah. They don't get it," I say. She smiles, and for the first time in forever, I don't feel so unusual.

"Do you regret beating that rapist up?" She asks.

She's the only one in this hospital that I feel comfortable telling the truth to. "I wish I could do it again."

I can tell she takes pleasure in me saying this. "Where do you plan on going after you get out here?"

"I don't," I say. "Hopefully somewhere far away from here."

She nods. "What's your name?" she asks.

"Bruce," I say.

"I'm Selina."

"Pleasure to meet you."

What I told Selina today are things I've expressed to other people. But it felt different. I feel pressure being taken off of me.

I feel free.

I had my weekly checkup today, where I tell the doctors about how I'm feeling. It's a pretty draining process, especially since they probably already know what my answers will be. But I go along with it.

"So Bruce, how have you been doing this week?" The doctor says.

"Good."

"That's good. Anything worth noting happened?"

I think about the discussion I had with Selina earlier today. I decide to not put her on the spot. "Nothing worth noting."

"How has your stay here been so far?"

I would like to say "mediocre," but I decide to make things easy on the doctors. "Pretty good."

This is when the doctor proceeds to talk about a topic I actually care about. "Bruce, we're trying to evaluate if you're suitable to check out."

"...okay," I say. Just go along with what they're saying.

"I need your input: do you think you're suitable to check out? Or do you think you need more time here?"

"...I'm not sure," I say, though my real answer is "yes, get me out of here." I don't say this, though.

"Before we move forward with the process of checking you out, which could take a long time, we need to be reassured that you won't commit any violent acts against others again."

I nod.

"Be honest with me: do you have any concern about potentially demonstrating more violent behavior?"

I think for a moment.

"Bruce?" the doctor says, trying to get my attention.

"...I think I'll be fine."


	9. Chapter 9: Square One

CHAPTER 9

"So Bruce, how would you describe your mood in the past week?"

"Average," I answer.

My therapist, Caroline, looks intrigued. "Just average?"

"That's not bad, is it?" I say.

"I suppose that's fair."

That's how almost everything is at this stage in my life: average. Nothing special, nothing terrible. And I'm just fine with that.

"How do you think your medications are working?"

"Good, as far as I can tell."

"No negative side effects that you can notice?"

"Not that I can tell."

She sits and writes all this stuff down on a piece of paper. All these years later, and I'm still paranoid that they're writing bad stuff about me.

Caroline remembers something. "I almost forgot: your birthday was last week, correct?"

"Yes, it was."

"I believe you're now…"

"Twenty-three," I say. "Or, as some would put it, one year closer to death."

Unlike other psychologists, she understands dark humor. I mostly like Caroline, though like most other therapists I've been with, it's been hard connecting with her, even after almost two years of seeing her.

"Did you do anything fun for your birthday?" she asks.

If you consider staying home and doing nothing all day fun, then I suppose I did. But I choose to give her the simpler answer. "No."

"You didn't go out for dinner? Or see a movie?" Like other psychologists, however, she doesn't understand that no means no.

"No. I don't really like leaving the house that much." Or at least I don't like leaving in the day. I don't tell her this, though.

"Interesting. Does it ever get boring to you?"

"You're either doing nothing and bored, or you're overwhelmed by too much to do. So you're essentially either shooting yourself or poisoning yourself."

She nods, intrigued by my philosophy. "What do you usually do at home? We haven't really talked much about that."

I think for a minute of what to say. "Um… I don't know…" I say hesitantly.

"Surely there's something that you do in your spare time," she asks. She really wants to know.

"...I don't want to talk about it."

She looks disappointed, but backs off. "Have you considered possible jobs to look for in the future?"

No, I really haven't. In fact, the last thing I want right now is having something that serves no purpose but to consume my time. Caroline recommends getting a job because it causes a lot of "emotional growth" and "maturity," but I don't buy it. All it would do to me is cause more anxiety than I already have.

"No," I answer.

"Surely you don't want that college degree to go to waste," she says, unaware that the only reason I got a forensic science degree was because Alfred made me, and I didn't want to argue with him any more than I already had.

I stay silent.

She sighs. "Have you talked with Alfred at all recently?"

I shake my head. I feel mixed emotions, but I can't pinpoint exactly what emotions I'm feeling.

"When was the last time you talked with him?" Caroline asks.

I try to remember. "I believe I talked with him on the phone a few months back," I say. To be frank, I probably haven't actually seen him in person in over a year.

"Do you know what he's up to now days?"

"Not really," I answer. "I'm pretty sure he's doing well, though."

"Was it tough for him when you asked him if you could live by yourself? Without his guidance?" Caroline asks, though what she doesn't know is that it wasn't so much an ask as it was a demand.

"Yeah. It took him a bit to come to terms with it, but he managed pretty well," I say, recalling all those years back.

"How did you feel about leaving him?" she asks. "I know this was a long time ago, but I'd just like to know, if you don't mind me asking."

I take a moment. "It was kind of bitter-sweet. But a bit relieving. It's pretty strange."

"Do you ever feel lonely living by yourself?"

If I could answer these types of questions in single sentences, then life would be a lot easier.

"Maybe," I say. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

Taking note of this, she writes something (what I presume to be related to my statement) down.

Diverting the subject, Caroline asks "what are your thoughts on the local elections last week? We've been talking about it for a while."

I force a smile, hiding my frustration. "Mixed at best."

"What's it at worst?"

"Too bad to describe with words," I joke. "A 'Mayor Cobblepot' doesn't roll off the tongue that well."

"A lot of people don't like him," Caroline says. "But clearly enough people did to get him elected."

"Well, most people aren't the brightest," I say, intentionally being egotistical. "But what can I say? He's a good-looking guy who knows how to speak well."

"If that's the case, maybe you should run, Bruce," Caroline jokes. "You'd get elected in no time."

Yes, because the reclusive son of an assassinated mayoral candidate who hasn't been seen by the public for years should definitely consider public office as a career.

"That job would suck," I answer. "There's a reason I choose to stay out of the limelight."

"Believe me, I understand."

Caroline and I sit in her office for a few more minutes, until I look at the clock.

"Is it okay if I leave a few minutes early?" I ask her. "I've just run out of steam."

"I suppose. See you next week?" she asks.

"Unless one of dies or gets arrested, then I suppose that'll work."

She nods, understanding the joke.

I walk out to my car, and start the engine, but I don't drive off just yet. The conversation Caroline and I had about Alfred is stuck in my head. Wherever he is, I hope he's moved far away from here, and moved on from this darkness.

Around other people I like to act like I've moved on from it as well, and I occasionally find myself convinced that that's the case.. But then I take another look at myself, and realize it's too late for that.


	10. Chapter 10: Crusader

CHAPTER 10

The door to a suburban apartment opens, and a man in his early thirties walks in, seemingly worn out from a day of work. He puts his coat up, and turns on the light.

He screams briefly, surprised to see a man in all black with a hood covering his face sitting on his couch late at night.

I can tell he's terrified. Good.

"Who…. who are you?!" he screams, panicked. "How did you get in here?!"

"Who supplied you with heroin?" I ask, keeping a lower, quiet tone.

"I will call the police if you don't tell me who you are!" he says. "I have a gun in the house!"

"Just answer my question. Who supplied you with it?" I ask calmly.

"I have no idea what you're talking about! Get out right now, or you'll regret coming in here!" His voice is shaky, and I can see him sweating from the stress. "Did you hear me? Get out right now!"

Why do these guys always have to be so difficult?

"I know you've been dealing heroin in the streets a few blocks down from here. The people you sold these drugs to told politely told me where you lived, so please don't lie to me. Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way, and I don't recommend the hard way. So please tell me: who supplied you?" I say, not making a single movement on the couch.

"Don't make me get my gun!" he screams. "I'll kill you! Get out of my apartment!"

"I'm not here to hurt you. I just need you to answer my question."

"Who told you I was here?" he asks, anger in his voice now. "Who told you?"

"For their best interest, I've elected not to tell. Now, who supplied you?"

"What happens after I tell you? Are you going to turn me in?" he asks.

"I would much prefer that to the alternative. But you need to work with me here. So please don't be difficult when I ask: who supplied you with heroin?"

He stands there still, trembling a little. "You're insane," he says.

Believe me, I know.

"Just tell me their name, and we can pretend this never happened," I say.

I see him tremble, on the verge of telling me. I lean forward on the couch, ready to listen.

He shakes. "I got them from…." he stops. "HELP! SOMEBODY PLEASE-"

I lunge at him, and cover his mouth so he can't scream. He struggles as I firmly hold his body down.

"I'll give you one last chance: tell me their name. And I'll let you go," I softly say.

He doesn't, and continues his struggle as he tries even harder to get his scream out..

I suppose he wants to do it the hard way.

I will not go into the details of what happened next. But needless to say, I got what I needed, with minimal damage. (To me, anyway. I can't really speak for him.)

Walking into my house, I take off my jacket. I look around my "home," though it really doesn't feel like it. It's a nice size, but I wish it were a bit smaller.

I walk into my bedroom, and cross another name off the list.

Admittedly, I might have not been telling that man the entire truth back there. Part of me wanted to just get the information without much trouble, but part of me likes it when these people are difficult. It causes a good shakeup in the story, and keeps things interesting. I always like an occasional good bit of action. If only that were enough to keep me fully satisfied.

I would never tell anybody this, though.

I sprawl myself on my bed, attempting to fall asleep. But my logic from all these years back still applies: the worst way to fall asleep is to actually try to fall asleep. And I'd say this logic applies to many other things besides just sleep.

It's funny to think that I've been around for twenty-three years, and this is where I am in my life. A good part of me feels a lot older than I really am, like I grew up too fast and realized what the world really was too soon. But there's another part of me still feels like a little kid.

For my entire life I've been preparing for the eventual prime of my life, and then when the realization comes that I'm now in that prime, I feel nothing. (Come to think of it, this would be a great conversation to have with Caroline in the future.)

On impulse, I get up and grab a telephone. I dial a number, hoping it still works.

Someone picks up.

"Hello?" I hear the signature British accent from the other side of the phone.

"Hello, Alfred." I say.

"I honestly expected the second coming of Christ before you called me again," he jokes.

"Yeah, I know it's been awhile. I just was wondering if you wanted meet up again sometime."


	11. Chapter 11: Reunions

CHAPTER 11

I hear a knock on my door, and I go to open it. Alfred is standing there with a small briefcase and a bottle of red wine, looking happy to see me. I wish I could express my relief to see him.

"Hello, Bruce," he cheerily says.

"Hello," I awkwardly say.

I welcome him in, and lead him into my kitchen. It's small, but suitable for two people.

"Nice house you have," he says.

"Yeah." I take note of the wine. "What's the wine for?"

"I thought we'd have a drink. I always wanted to, but you were too young."

Timidly, I say "I don't drink. Sorry."

He smiles, disappointed. "Prude."

I am pretty certain that was a joke, as I am anything but a "prude." But I am quite surprised that he wants to have a drink with me, because in all my years living with him, I never saw him drinking at all.

We take a moment to get situated in our seats, and for some reason I find myself avoiding eye contact with him. It's strange.

"So, how have you been?" he asks. Normally, I would complain that this question is generic. But it feels different this time.

"Mediocre," I answer.

"Mediocre?"

"That's not bad, is it?"

"I suppose not," he answers. I can see that he notices me in distress. He doesn't pressure me, though. "So, was there a reason you wanted to see me in person after months of silence?"

I think for a moment. Yeah, there was a reason. But I can't get myself to express this. I don't understand what's so hard about it, but I finally manage to say "I missed you."

He chuckles. "Obviously. But I was wondering if there was something else?"

I try to think, and I suppose I might as well ask this now. "I wanted to know how you were doing without me."

"It's been pretty boring. Watching British soap operas constantly gets old pretty easily."

I cock an eyebrow at this. "Since when do you watch British soap operas?"

"There are many things you don't know about me, Bruce," he says. "Having an interest in British soap operas is one of them."

I pause for a moment, taking this new information in. "Alfred, I wanted to know if you've moved on."

"From what?"

"Me. My parents. Gotham. Everything."

He sighs. "If you count living separately from you 'moving on,' then yes. But I think of you more than you probably want me to."

I avoid eye contact with him. I don't know if I feel better or worse after that statement.

"I was hoping you'd have moved away by now. Maybe find love. Maybe get a group of friends. But I see you're still stuck here as well," I say.

"I have everything I need, Bruce," Alfred says. "I don't want anything else." He stays quiet for a moment. "I don't assume you get out of the house much?"

"No," I say. "I'm trying to keep my life simple."

Alfred looks conflicted about something, like he's trying to get something out.

"What is it?" I ask him.

"Bruce, I need you to be honest with me: what have you been doing in your spare time?"

"Nothing," I answer.

"Please don't lie to me. I'm only asking because I care about you, and don't want you doing anything crazy."

Silence.

"Bruce, don't think I don't check the local news. Reports of a hooded man assaulting criminals in their homes spreads quicker than you think." Alfred sits up firmly, and I would be lying if I said I wasn't slightly intimidated.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're trying to ask," I say.

"I'm not an idiot, Bruce," Alfred says. "Do you know that what you're doing isn't exactly legal?"

I remain firm. "A lot of things aren't legal, Alfred. I know what I'm doing. And while I am not asking forgiveness for what I'm doing, I do wish that you at least understand that I'm doing this for the greater good."

"Is it really for the greater good, though?" Alfred asks.

"I beg your pardon?" My blood starts to heat up.

"While I do not deny that you do care for the well being of this city, I can tell you right now that that is not your main motivation. And whether you acknowledge that or not is your choice. But for now, I advise you: please stop." Alfred takes a sip of wine.

I feel the fire start to grow within me. "I'm just trying to make this city a better place."

"But you're not. You're finding people, who admittedly may have done wrong, to take your anger out on. I recognize that you are angry and overwhelmed. But this is not the way. And this is not who you're meant to be, either."

"Really? Then who am I meant to be?" I ask, raising my voice. "For my entire life, I wasn't even sure who the real 'me' even was. Now I finally find something that actually gives me a purpose to live, and I don't feel meaningless anymore." Alfred doesn't respond. "Answer me!" Still nothing. "I said answer me!"

"Bruce, think about this logically: what will this eventually result in? A few scarred criminals? Crime will always exist. And beating some thugs up won't help anything. What you're doing won't matter in the end."

We stare each other down for a few moments.

"It matters to me. For the first time in my life, I actually know who I am," I say firmly.

"Do you really?"

I stand there for a moment, contemplating this. No, I don't know who I am. I never have. But I don't say this.

"So what are you going to do? Turn me in to the police?" I say.

"I will do whatever it takes to ensure that you're safe. But for now, I just advise you stop doing what you're doing. If they catch you, then you will be locked up for the rest of your life, and I cannot bare to live for that. So take me advice: stop this whole act right now."

"And what happens if I don't?"

"Then I will turn you in. You've been warned."

Sitting there for what seems like hours without speaking, I stare at Alfred with a hatred I've never felt toward him.

"Alfred, please leave," I say.

"Are you asking me to leave because you're bored of me, or do you want me to leave because you know what I'm saying is true?"

My blood starts boiling.

"Alfred, leave. Now."

"I need to know you'll do what I say."

"Leave."

"No. Tell me you'll do what I-"

"I said LEAVE!"

For a brief moment, I go into a deep trance, and loose control over myself. I feel my body get up and raise my fist, about to strike Alfred.

But something stops me. I snap out of my trance, and realize that I was about to physically attack Alfred. The memories of me as a nine year-old screaming at Alfred come back. All the thrashing and kicking as he tries to restain me come back. All the threats I made about killing him or myself come back.

Perhaps that disturbed, violent child isn't as dead as I thought.

I look at Alfred, expecting him to be terrified, or furious, or both. But he isn't. He is unphased, as he always is. I sit back down, and avoid eye contact.

"Don't worry, Bruce. I don't take it personally," he says calmly, as if this is a normal occurrence.

I stay silent.

"Well, I suppose I should get going. Think about what we talked about." He starts to get up, but leaves his briefcase. "Those are just old family memories that I thought you'd like to have."

He hastily walks out of the kitchen, and I hear the door close in the distance. And I am again alone.

That was two months ago. I would like to say that something fantastic or something devastating happened, but it didn't. I chose not to talk with Caroline about what happened, as I try to keep my discussions with her fairly light. (Not to mention it would out me as a hooded vigilante, and that would not be good for me or Alfred.) I've been thinking about that day for two months.

That is, until I heard a knock on my door today.

I open the door, expecting to see some salesperson. But I don't. Instead I see Mayor Oswald Cobblepot.

"Long time no see, Bruce," he says. "What's it been, fifteen or so years?"

"Yeah, something like that," I say.


	12. Chapter 12: Oswald Cobblepot

CHAPTER 12

I know I'll regret bringing this man into my living room, but I'll try to be as pleasant as possible.

"I never realized how much you looked like your father," Cobblepot says. He's quite a handsome man, despite being in his late 40s. Even when I was younger, he'd always like to wear a stupid bowtie tuxedo and a tophat.

"How did you find me?" I ask, curiously.

"Oh, I have my connections," he says. "How have you been? I know it's been quite a while."

He greets me like an old friend, despite only being my father's former business partner. It sickens me that he acts like we actually know each other.

"May I ask what you're doing here?" I say.

Cobblepot smiles. "First off, I wanted to thank you. If it weren't for your father, I would not be where I am right now. So, in his place, I'd like to thank you."

Flattery isn't doing him much favors.

"Why are you really here?" I ask, still trying to be pleasant.

He sighs, trying to be charming. "You see, your father was an important figure to me. He was like the older brother I never had. And you know as well as anyone that he was impactful on the lives of Gotham residents all around, as was your mother. Furthermore, I-"

"Just get to the point."

"My apologies. Sometimes I get carried away. I would like to ask you for a posthumous endorsement from you father, through you. I figured that after being in the shadows for so long, it would be good for you to step out and make a difference in the world."

I stay silent for a moment, processing everything he just said.

"Why do you need an endorsement from my father?"

"Just as a symbol of honor and respect we had for each other. It would be a great way to-"

"To give yourself more credibility?" I say, interrupting him. He looks confused. "I mean, that's the gist of it, right? You know you're not the most popular mayor ever, so maybe an endorsement from Gotham's prodigal son would be a good way to ensure the public that you _aren't_ just another corporate jackass?"

I see Cobblepot looks taken aback. "...I am sorry, but I don't quite understand-"

"My parents were not perfect people. Far from it. They were greedy, manipulative, but I know for a fact that if they saw you running for office, the last person they would endorse is you."

I see the fury in his eyes. He keeps his cool, though. "How would you know of such matters?"

"I overheard them speaking about firing you for borderline criminal financial actions shortly before they died. I also found it in a few unsent letters my father wrote."

"Why were you looking through your father's private documents?"

"When you're alone and have nothing else to do, you get curious. If I remember correctly, you were going to be fired for supplying local mob dealers with ammunition in exchange for money, correct?" He doesn't answer. "Obviously, I could be misremembering, as it's been so long, but I probably still have that letter in storage somewhere."

He looks defeated at first, but then forces a warm smile. "Your father always used to brag about how smart you were," he says. "I must say that I'm impressed."

"To answer your question, no, I do not have a desire to endorse you as Gotham's mayor," I say.

Cobblepot is still forcing his smile. "I must say that this conversation did not go as I expected," he says. "And I was certainly not expecting you to have such fluent social skills."

"What can I say? Some people have a natural talent."

"Quite intriguing. The boy who supposedly 'just couldn't handle it' is speaking like anyone else, and appears to be living like any other functioning person. Really makes you wonder."

This statement throws me off guard. "Wonder what?" I say, harshness in my voice.

"Tell me Bruce: what made you hide from the world?"

"I didn't want the attention," I say.

"Well, I must say that you and Alfred really convinced us all that there was truly something wrong with you. But I can see now that that clearly wasn't the case."

I feel the urge to snap Cobblepot's neck. "...you think it was all an act?"

"Quite a good act, might I say," Cobblepot smiles. "Not wanting to do anything with your life, so you simply just vanish from everything and pretend like you're an insane person. Well-played."

"You don't know the first thing about me," I tell him.

"There's quite a bit I don't know, yes. But I saw you as a happy eight-year old child, running around your parents' mansion dressed as a bat. And then the world gets news about you going crazy. Doesn't really line up."

"Is there a reason for you telling me this?" I ask.

"No. I just wanted to make a point. You people act insane one moment, and then are fine the minute something goes your way. Whether you choose to acknowledge this or not, you're not sick. And you never were. You just wanted a scapegoat for your problems."

We sit there quietly, not making a single movement.

Finally, I break the silence. "So you're mayor of Gotham for the next few years. What now?"

Cobblepot just grins. "We live in a corporate world, Mr. Wayne. And people around here should start to recognize that."

"So essentially you're going to continue to supply weapons to mob dealers and cut funding from core services just so you can thrive in your mansion?"

Cobblepot rolls his eyes. "You don't know anything, kid," he says. "Even if I was doing what you accuse me of, what would you knowing about it do? You're only viewed by the public as the poor child who went insane. Endorsing me might have changed that, but right now, you're nothing."

I just glare at him.

He grins. "Good day, Mr. Wayne."

And with that, Oswald Cobblepot leaves.

What seems like the next few hours, I think about his statement: _Whether you choose to acknowledge this or not, you're not sick. You never were._

For my entire life people have accused me of that. That I was making it up to get attention. That I was just manipulating people. That I wanted people to feel sorry for me. That I just wanted to feel special.

These same people would likely say that is the reason why I lashed out when I was younger. Or why I expressed violent thoughts about my classmates to my school. Or why I beat up the rapist in the parking lot. Or why I made a hobby of punishing criminals as a vigilante.

For a split second, I believe them.

But I wouldn't be doing those things in the first place if there weren't a reason to. And people can't seem to understand that. And these same people abandon those starving on the streets because "they're too lazy to get a job." And these same people blame the anxious teenage girl for her rape because "she's the one who let it happen." And these same people are the ones that allow people like Oswald Cobblepot to get in power.

I feel the adrenaline in my veins, and I get an urge that I've never had before.

I grab the phone, and dial the number.

"Alfred," I say into the phone. "I need to talk with you about something."


End file.
